Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
Tags
#sadbutbeautiful
I am the lonely portrait— a relic of forgotten frames, paused mid-stroke, as if the brush lost faith in its worth My skin is painted by many words; learning how to be tough, taking down note by hesitant note— while the music always plays in a minor key, an echo with no crescendo, a verse that never becomes a chorus. I speak in shadows— duelling the lovely dark that dresses itself as company. It moves like an earthquake beneath ribs, quiet until it’s catastrophic, gentle until it crumbles; paramount and omnipotent. My tears are potent, but never that important – imported; as they arrive like a contraband emotion, smuggled in through brief touches, but never held long enough to feel like home. No comfort in the snuggle, only a struggle for the struggle — I carry a thousand reflections, yet none are my own. And still, I try—stroke by trembling stroke— to repaint my worth without a muse, without applause, just silence and canvas and longing. I am the painter’s sad poem— unfinished, unframed; hanging quietly in a gallery no one walks through anymore.
0
May 29, 2025
May 29, 2025 at 5:20 PM UTC
OddOdysseyPoet
The Gallery No One Walks Through
I am the lonely portrait— a relic of forgotten frames, paused mid-stroke, as if the brush lost faith in its worth My skin is painted by many words; learning how to be tough, taking down note by hesitant note— while the music always plays in a minor key, an echo with no crescendo, a verse that never becomes a chorus. I speak in shadows— duelling the lovely dark that dresses itself as company. It moves like an earthquake beneath ribs, quiet until it’s catastrophic, gentle until it crumbles; paramount and omnipotent. My tears are potent, but never that important – imported; as they arrive like a contraband emotion, smuggled in through brief touches, but never held long enough to feel like home. No comfort in the snuggle, only a struggle for the struggle — I carry a thousand reflections, yet none are my own. And still, I try—stroke by trembling stroke— to repaint my worth without a muse, without applause, just silence and canvas and longing. I am the painter’s sad poem— unfinished, unframed; hanging quietly in a gallery no one walks through anymore.
Continue reading...
19
_Sigh_! It comes like a train — an express line through my thoughts, _no stops, no warnings._ Oh how DEPRESSION clips at my heels, familiar as shadow, unwelcome as memory. Defeated — like sunlight pressed to branches too burdened to bloom. My heart hangs in moss — heavy, strangled in the green silence of old grief. Tears lean like leafless trees, bowed in all directions, yet rooted in a place with no direction — a forest dying quietly, where even the familiar trails feel like ghost roads I no longer recognize. I feel short of worth — like coins counted in silence, never enough to buy the currency of being loved. I glow in daylight, but dusk takes its due — and now I dim with every breath. I try to speak, but end up forcing books down my throat, pages crammed with words I never learned to say. But you’ll never see me cry in public — I’m an island left off every map, burying bottle messages even I won’t recover. I have so much hopeful words for others, but I’m a stack of unread stories to myself; a pen that dries before I can name the ache. And somewhere inside —I find a red box with hidden compartments, each one meant to hold something sacred. But they echo when I open them — _soft, hollow_ reminders that even my soul has forgotten how to fill its space.
0
Jul 27, 2025
Jul 27, 2025 at 2:52 PM UTC
OddOdysseyPoet
The Compartments I Can’t Fill
_Sigh_! It comes like a train — an express line through my thoughts, _no stops, no warnings._ Oh how DEPRESSION clips at my heels, familiar as shadow, unwelcome as memory. Defeated — like sunlight pressed to branches too burdened to bloom. My heart hangs in moss — heavy, strangled in the green silence of old grief. Tears lean like leafless trees, bowed in all directions, yet rooted in a place with no direction — a forest dying quietly, where even the familiar trails feel like ghost roads I no longer recognize. I feel short of worth — like coins counted in silence, never enough to buy the currency of being loved. I glow in daylight, but dusk takes its due — and now I dim with every breath. I try to speak, but end up forcing books down my throat, pages crammed with words I never learned to say. But you’ll never see me cry in public — I’m an island left off every map, burying bottle messages even I won’t recover. I have so much hopeful words for others, but I’m a stack of unread stories to myself; a pen that dries before I can name the ache. And somewhere inside —I find a red box with hidden compartments, each one meant to hold something sacred. But they echo when I open them — _soft, hollow_ reminders that even my soul has forgotten how to fill its space.
Continue reading...
28